


is the moon still in love with the sun

by romanvacation



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, go easy i am a delicate babey, not that much angst I swear, short fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-09-01 16:37:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20261185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanvacation/pseuds/romanvacation
Summary: brad is just happy that patrice is looking at him at all.





	is the moon still in love with the sun

**Author's Note:**

> i put this on tumblr originally, but i thought i might as well dump it here. title is from “from me, the moon” by lav.
> 
> and though i already thanked them, i’m going to do it again. you know who you are.

it’s been two years since brad had seen him. or, rather, really seen him, because there had been times when when he’d “stumbled” across pictures on friends’ accounts, and there was always that familiar ache in his chest when he saw patrice’s smile, his arm wrapped around the shoulders of whomever was beside him.

although brad had seen patrice’s face in that regard, nothing could have prepared him for seeing him in person.

it was by pure accident, because all brad had wanted was to have a couple of drinks on a saturday night, and patrice was (one of) the last things on his mind, until they met eyes across the bar.

he’d done such a good job until now. boston was a big city, anyway, so it wasn’t like he and patrice were going to bump into each other, and they hadn’t. not since their breakup, and brad was more than grateful for that. he didn’t need a constant reminder — other than when he purposely decided to go looking for it, which was usually into the early hours of the morning with a laptop propped on his lap, sometimes a little drunk and always pushing away the voice in his head that said this would only hurt him.

he tries to ignore patrice’s presence at first, simply turning to look up at the tvs above the bar, occasionally taking a sip of his third or so beer.

even if he wanted to talk to him, he’s surrounded by friends, all of whom are deeply invested in the baseball game on tv and getting closer and closer to drunk. patrice sticks out, though. just the fact that he’s sitting in the very center of the group, and from what brad can tell, everyone loves him, and he seems perfectly sober and perfectly calm, despite his friends’ bursts of roaring cheers or disappointed groans.

time passes slowly, knowing that patrice is sitting right there, and it’s late when their stools scrape across the floor. out of the corner of his eye, he can see patrice standing up, putting a hand on one of his friend’s shoulders, smiling now.

the image makes brad’s heart twist with some kind of odd and unexpected jealousy, and he averts his attention to the half-empty glass in front of him, running his finger across the rim.

the bar goes quiet, and brad doesn’t realize patrice is standing right next to him until he says his name, and brad looks over at him, feigning a sort of surprised expression, as if he hadn’t even recognized him. “oh,” he says, raising his eyebrows, “patrice. how are you?”

he’s a little drunk, so the words come out all slurred together like a child dragging the hair of a bow across strings, and patrice notices, his gaze flickering across brad’s face, that familiar saintly concern. 

brad is just happy that patrice is looking at him at all.

“good,” he says after a moment, glancing towards the approaching bartender as if to decline any more drinks for him. it seems to work too, because the bartender turns abruptly to another customer. “i can get you home,” he says then, meeting brad’s eyes again.

“always so nice,” brad mumbles, only half-aware of his own words now, sliding off the barstool rather ungracefully, prompting patrice to put a steadying hand on his shoulder. “what happened to your friends?” he asks, wobbling just a little.

“they have another driver,” patrice says, like brad is the only thing that matters right now, and for a second, it feels good.

he’s missed him too much to decline a ride home, though his pride tells he’s not that drunk, and when patrice puts an arm around him as they make their way to the door, brad thinks for a second that maybe things were how they used to be.

sure, their relationship was tumultuous at first, but it got better, though brad always felt like he didn’t deserve him, which was true — he didn’t — but patrice always shook his head at that, like he couldn’t fathom why he would ever feel that way, and then he’d press a kiss to his forehead & pull him into his arms, and brad would put his head on patrice’s shoulder, closing his eyes, breathing in his scent.

he could smell it now, some sort of unidentifiable, clean musk, like shampoo and soap and just a little cologne, and when they make it to the car, brad doesn’t want to pull away when patrice opens the door for him.

he always used to do that when they were together. it didn’t matter whether it was a date or not, patrice was always at the passenger door, always happy to open it for brad. he made it seem like more of a reflex than a conscious thought.

it’s when patrice slides into the driver’s seat that brad can sort of focus on him for the first time, though his head feels like it’s filled with fog. he can see him better like this, his features illuminated by the streetlight above them shining through the windshield. the hard line of his nose, the curve of his lips. it isn’t until the car starts that brad tears his gaze away, trying to suppress the reckless urge to kiss him breathless, trying to forget the thought that after two years, patrice still looks the same.

“you still live at the same place?” patrice asks as he puts the car in reverse and backs out of the space. the parking lot is empty by now, and brad can see in the mirror the reflection of the moon. it reminds him of patrice. he nods then, turning back to look at him.

it doesn’t occur to him that patrice doesn’t ask for his address, because he remembers. at one point, it was almost like his second home.

they drive in silence for a while. it isn’t awkward, not for brad at least, and he steals glances at patrice sometimes, wondering if he misses brad like he misses him.

he hopes so.

“i’m sorry, y’know,” he says abruptly, voice low, unable to stop himself (or the beer, rather) from talking. the words come tumbling out, almost tripping over each other, like his brain isn’t connected to his mouth. not that it is most of the time, anyway.

patrice clears his throat — the first time he’s shown a hint of discomfort. “i know,” he says quietly, because he’s heard it a million times before.

“no, but, like—” brad starts again, on the verge of rambling now. “i shouldn’t’ve treated you like that. you never did anything wrong. ever. you never did. and i— i fucked up. big time.”

there’s a long, heavy pause before patrice says: “that’s not true,” and something flickers in his eyes as he stares at the road ahead. “we both did,” he says after a second, the muscle in his jaw flexing. brad wants to reach over and brush his fingers across it.

two years ago was when it all fell apart. he was wound up all the time, letting work and everything get to him, and patrice was in the line of fire simply by proximity.

with all the arguments, he hardly noticed when patrice spent the days holed up in his own apartment, mulling over his own issues, things he’d kept from brad because he didn’t want to make things worse.

and at some point, everything eventually gets to be too much. brad knows that now. not everything can make it through.

patrice pulls the car towards the curb and parks, shutting the engine off before turning to look at brad, who has an odd expression on his face, something tired and hopeless and defeated, and patrice’s heart hurts so much that he has to look away, has to get out of the car and make his way to the passenger side to help him get out.

he keeps his arm around him, pushing the door shut with the other as he reaches for his keys to lock the car, and they’re making their way up to the sidewalk, up to the door, where patrice has to assist him with the keys, and to the elevators, where brad almost loses his balance getting in.

they make it down the hall. patrice stops in front of the door he knows is his, whereas brad tries to walk past his own apartment. “marchy—” patrice says, catching his wrist the way a parent would their child, pulling him gently back towards the door.

the nickname hurts a little. he can’t remember the last time patrice called him that.

brad, he would whisper over and over, like it was the most wonderful thing he’d ever said. like his name was a poem. brad, brad, brad.

“oh,” is all he can say, pushing away the slight sting, putting a sheepish grin on his face, the same way he puts on a show for everyone else. plays the tough act.

there’s a pause. it’s a different kind of heavy silence than the car, and patrice’s hand is still on his wrist, and there’s so much that brad wants to say to him, but he’s not even sure how to put feelings into words, how to say that he wants patrice back, that he wants to try again.

and he thinks he can do better this time

he wants to undo everything. to put things back to how they were before — back to june. two years ago. when they were laying in bed one morning, and there was all this light hitting patrice, like he was some sort of angel, and he reached over and traced a finger down the bridge brad’s nose, a gentle, warm kind of expression on his face.

beautiful, he’d whispered. beautiful, beautiful, beautiful.

and brad can’t help it anymore. he leans forward and kisses him, and it’s like he’s been holding his breath for the last two years. in the back of his mind, he feels patrice’s hand drop from his wrist, and he brings his hands up to his jaw, thumb finding that place he’d wanted to touch, and in the high, brad doesn’t realize that patrice isn’t kissing him like he’s kissing patrice.

he doesn’t realize when they pull away either, though he thinks for a second that something is maybe, like, a little wrong, because patrice looks somewhat pale, but he can’t fathom why.

“marchy, i—”

it stings more this time, because brad wants him to say his name. he wants so desperately to hear it from patrice’s lips.

“i can’t do this,” he says, quietly, gently, like the good, saintly person he is, and brad feels like the breath has been knocked out of his lungs. “you’re not thinking right, anyway,” he adds, shaking his head, like he’s clearing his thoughts. like he’s the one who’s just messed up.

so brad unlocks the door with patrice’s gaze still on him, and he steps inside his apartment. it’s dark. and empty. and he turns around and looks at patrice, who gives him a tiny smile, though it doesn’t quite mean what brad wants it too. it’s the kind of smile he would give jake when he offered to be the designated driver. the kind he would give just anyone. because that’s just patrice.

“thanks, bergy,” he says finally before he closes the door, and it isn’t until some other night, some other time with the laptop sitting on his lap that he remembers that patrice has a fiancée, with his arm wrapped around her waist and those bright, smiling expressions, and brad wonders what he whispers to her when they’re alone.

beautiful, beautiful, beautiful.


End file.
